


A Nest

by fewlmewn



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Altered Mental States, Bed-Wetting, Character Study, Corporal Punishment, Established Relationship, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Past Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Survivor Guilt, mentions of - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:33:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26839780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fewlmewn/pseuds/fewlmewn
Summary: Anders remembers how he survived through being a Circle mage, a Warden and then a runaway stray - until finding Hawke, and wonders if perhaps not all will be lost when things come to a head.
Relationships: Anders/Male Hawke
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	A Nest

**Author's Note:**

> Heed the tags, this is mostly a character study fic but it's still based around a prompt I saw years ago flying around the Kinkmeme, regarding Anders and pissing. I couldn't think of a good way to involve watersports, so have this sad bed-wetting experience instead.  
> Not beta-read, and I only gave it a cursory look because I began it a long time ago and decided to finish it only today.  
> Enjoy!

Suddenly, he felt himself open his eyes.

Still surrounded by darkness, the anonymous mattress below gave him no clue about his location other than the fact that, judging from the thick bulges of packed straw pressing against his thinly clothed back, he had been resting in a cot decent enough for him not to be in solitary. It would have been a far harder material under him, then. Most definitely not this somewhat pleasant bedding he could feel rustling under his inquisitive toes.

As he still wondered why it was so pitch black around him, despite his assumption that one's eyesight would've already grown accustomed to the lighting, he chose to remain still and unmoving for the time being. Whichever the case, if he stayed still, no one would have known he had woken at all.

He relied on his other senses to check his surroundings. Perhaps a distant cough would've meant he was among others, or the echo of clattering pots and tankards would've reassured him he was simply resting at an inn, however cheap, with moth-eaten sheets to await him the next day.

At least he had the certainty he wasn't back in solitary. The tall expanses of cold, slick grey stone surrounding him in every direction weren't going to taunt him, not tonight. He wouldn't have felt the phantoms of rats scuttling between his ankles, the nagging fear of finding more than just his dirty woolen socks nibbled at come morning. But then, if he wasn't in solitary, where most of the templars left him alone for weeks at a time, more amused at seeing his wavering sanity crumble bit by bit than they were at disturbing him with new torments... That could only mean....

Perhaps he had imagined it. In hindsight, he truly had. But the rhythmic clanging between his ears grew louder and louder, as if someone was getting closer to him. Someone was coming to get him.

Picking at his scabs as soon as they had gotten pink and fresh wasn't enough anymore. Waking up with a linen shirt pasty with sweat, new blood and the pus from torn blisters couldn't deter them any longer. He had to do more. Refusing to empty his chamber pot only resulted in more lashes and reprimands of all sorts, and by that very same night someone had taken care of it anyway. He could only go so long without washing himself before someone started complaining or outright refusing to side with him during training. And then they would say he didn't deserve to practice until he had cleaned up. On those nights he wondered if his plan had worked, if he had managed to be spared whatever abuse they might have had in store for him for just one more day, but he would still lay in bed, restless with magic he could never seem to have a chance to exhaust as of late. Blood pulsing and thrumming with energy as he tried to cocoon himself in ratty blankets that smelled more and more of sewage with each passing night.

It had been enough so far, but before long the Templars had caught up with his idea. Instead of grabbing him and locking him inside the baths, however, they decided to mess with his head instead. Parading one miserable mage after the other in front of him, with neck and wrists scrubbed raw over and below the hems of their robes, still wet, had gotten the point across. If they were willing to take him, like they’d taken the others, and forcibly bathe and do Maker-knows-what to him without second thoughts, the only way around it would have been to stop them from getting close at all.

The first time, it happened by chance. He was so afraid of what they might have concocted for him, what excuse they would've come up with to pull his arms and get in the baths with him, rip his clothes off and chill the blood in his veins with freezing water. He had seen them, the crueller ones, grab his friends to spite him and abuse them as well, without reason. Just to make him feel guilty.

He was paralyzed in bed then, too. That first time, when the first pale rays of a new dreadful day shone through his tiny window, he couldn't get up. Steps got closer and closer, louder and louder. He heard a gauntleted hand pound on his door, and then, with a hellish chuckle, the door slammed open.

No locks, not for anybody. Mages should be behaving well enough not to have anything to hide, and if they're not behaving - all the more reason to have complete and utter control over them, no matter the time of day. What little privacy he ever got had been, surprisingly enough, back in solitary, when the heavy double doors to the Tower hadn't been deemed sufficient to keep him leashed.

When the heavy wood thudded against the wall, he jolted inside his bundle of bedsheets - and then it happened.

Even now, still enveloped in darkness, he could almost hear the deep rumble threatening him. Was it real, or was it just a memory?

"I know what ye think yer doing, mage. Think if ye stink enough we'll let ye be? Though luck, 'cos is still early and me shift's almost over. So I'm thinking -I'll get ye all cleaned up and then maybe I'll finally manage to have a round with ye. 've heard no one's quite given ye the welcome ye deserve."

He shut his eyes so hard he feared he could never open them again, and his teeth clattered, already feeling the freezing spray of punishing water on his skin. But under him, a pleasant warmth spread and he felt just a little bit better. Like he could push back the threat of that bath, of everything else. Like maybe inside the bed he could be safe, as long as he managed to stay warm and tightly bound in his sheets.

"Come on out, mage!"

The calloused hand scratched his scalp before nestling in his knotty hair. Wound as it was, with a rough jerk the man managed to pull him out from under the covers by his head but it wasn't long before he dropped him down. The floor was hard, and he was sure he was going to bruise where he had hit a jutting tile in the stonework, but even that was better than being dragged all the way to the baths by the head.

"What the fuck! Yer disgusting, ye should be given the whip for that. Dinna think ye would've gone this far to save yer hide, but yer not safe yet. I'm gonna tell and –  _ then _ – I'll finally have some fun making ye taste the leather!"

He had kicked him, and left him alone, stomping outside with the door still wide open. Another Templar, green and barely managing to stay upright inside a suit of armour larger than him passed by and, looking inside, he scrunched his face in disgust too, walking down the corridor a foot further from his room, skirt almost catching against the opposite wall.

The awareness of what had happened in those lightning-fast few minutes finally dawned on him as he felt the cooling wetness of his nightclothes, clinging to him and to the air with an acrid stench.

He looked back to his cot, before checking down his body and, with a pang of mortification, he saw, level with his very face, a large puddle of bright piss staining the grey linens. There was so much it had even started dripping down through the bedframe, seeping through the linens, the mattress, and the wooden slats. His cheeks were burning, and in a daze he got up on his feet and started summoning ice shards inside the corner washbasin, almost splintering the thin metal in his haste, but still trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. With warmed hands he made the ice melt to water and tried to clean up the worst of the mess with what corners of the bedding were left unmarred. But the liquid was seeping up along the fibres, and he could feel cold drips staining his legs and rising up his belly where his tunic stuck pathetically to his body.

He begun cleaning himself up for the most part and changed into his robes, after scrubbing and draining the drenched pieces of cloth by twisting them over the basin with his bare hands. Then, an hour later, while salty trails of tears were drying down his cheeks, a quiet girl came in with new bedclothes, linens and a fresh straw mattress she propped against the wall. He was speechless and immobile as she hauled the dirty linens, heavy with the weight of his urine, inside a large square of fabric. They were gonna burn those sheets up, of that he was certain. He just wished the liquid wasn’t going to seep through the fabric any more than it had already done, if anything to spare him - but the girl, too - the humiliation of going around with pissed-in laundry trailing behind herself.

Nobody mentioned anything, and for the following years it seemed like anybody who might’ve found out about this pretended not to know. The Templar came back the very next morning, but at the first clue of his arrival, the deed had already been carried out, repelling the bastard once again.

There was a silent agreement that nobody was going to say what went on in his rooms, the girl kept coming back with a change for his  _ incidents _ , and everybody hoped he wouldn't have wet himself for once. Then, they could've taken advantage of his slip and made him pay for his behaviour.

But with every morning, the pleasant warmth that awaited him overshadowed whichever sense of humiliation that might have come from it. He didn't care what anybody thought, because he had finally found a way to keep them away for good.

Until they started barging in in the middle of the night, and he had to adjust.

Now he might wake up, and only then unconsciously loosen his muscles and flood the cot. Other times he would wake only to find his sheets already cold and the smell already filling his nostrils and sticking to his hair. After a while his mind had been conditioned to let go, no matter when. The important thing was to, eventually, at any point during his sleep or in the first few minutes after waking up, release the pressure in his bladder before anybody came in. The wetness, the foul odour filling the air, seeing the yellow stain branching out from his groin through the sheet would've always deterred anyone, it would've kept him safe, no matter how disgusting and embarrassing it might have been.

No one was gonna touch him. No one would've taken him. Not as long as he could defend himself.

It became more a thing of instinct, a strange response of fight or flight to keep predators at bay than it was a conscious decision. But as long as it worked, he was content to spend most of his morning tidying the mess up.

But now - now he's not so sure. With the myriad of thoughts inhabiting his head lately, it's gotten harder and harder to be lucid when his mind wakes up. Every dark room looks like the one before, every sound could be mistaken for something different, for a threat. All it takes is the sparkle of moonlight against a glass vial to fool him into thinking a metal-clad Templar is lurking in the shadows, waiting for him to rouse so that the violation could be sweeter.

He could struggle. Hell, now that he's in Darktown he could even set the blasted bastard on fire and no one would so much as blink. But the memory of the powerful, breath-taking pain a Silence always manages to rip out of his lungs burns too bright. How pleased would the Templars of Kirkwall be to have caught  _ him _ – not only a relapsing apostate, but also a Wardens’ deserter. Giving him the sting of the whip over long healed scars would be a delight for them, and surely enough here in the Gallows they're twisted enough to think he himself would enjoy the punishment too. Then, there’s the matter of Tranquility, and he just can’t have anyone coming too close.

He cannot risk it. Perhaps it's nothing, but he cannot risk being taken, not after having fought, having resisted so long. They won't have him.

And in the darkness of his clinic, surrounded by nothing but the rustle of dust on the gravelly ground and the twinkle of freshly-brewed potions, he feels the warmth surround him once again. They won't have him for yet another day.

– – –

Almost every morning, he needs to take care of his linens. He’s since learned ways to deal with most of the fallout, the kind of spells used by wet-nurses in Tevinter to clean up after spoiled brats. The kind that reminds him that when it’s time to wake up he is, by all means, little more than a child who has yet to learn his manners. There are enough excuses he can turn to in order to shield himself from his own accusations, but even if he keeps telling himself danger is still lurking at all hours, wherever he might run to or wherever he might be sleeping that night, that doesn’t entirely help him work through the issue. Despite the sense of security, no matter how you look at it, but the pleasant feeling of being protected by something he will always be able to rely upon is indeed an issue. It’s undeniable how much this habit has changed his life. It’s given him something, but it has demanded something in return. Every once in a while, it reclaimed his pride, which he had to toss in the gutter along with ruined clothes and bedsheets. Other times, this instinctive reaction his body automatically employed reclaimed his privacy; this wasn’t something he could share with others, not like he used to when he still hadn’t discovered how foul Templars can be. Countless times he already had to be spirited away by his own sense of shame in the middle of the night, leaving behind unsuspecting lovers who would’ve woken to an empty, cold bed. But it would’ve always been better than having near strangers awaken in soiled blankets, with the despicable being he had turned into still peacefully sleeping the mortification away. Other times he just plainly remained alert throughout the night, perched on a chair, looking around for any sign of trespassers. Losing sleep and peace of mind at any distant sound of boots or a door screeching wide open in the darkness was better than reacting in the only other way he knew.

The only time his body had given him some reprieve had been at Vigil’s Keep. It had been weeks, months before he could learn to trust the place, and the people inside. Once she had seen how he reacted to the presence or mention of Templars, the Warden Commander had gone to great lengths to reassure him that no threat would have reached him here. It took more time still to believe her, but eventually he managed to shut out the noise of armour around him as he dozed off on the battlements during his shift. He managed to feel at ease in his room, even. The thick stones embedded in the walls all around him weren’t a prison anymore. He’d finally learned to prize them. They could shield him from sound, from intruders. He was safe.

The locks were polished, freshly forged things, installed by the Commander with Howe’s approval. Apparently, the previous owner had been no better than a Templar in ensuring his subjects and family had no privacy or respite at all. Surprisingly, he had bonded with Nathaniel over how neither of them was a stranger to whippings and rough reprimands.

Those had been good times, despite the Darkspawn. Actually, the Taint allowed him to sense the wretched things, and this ability made him feel more in control, enough so that his incidents thinned out more and more until he didn’t have to ask any of the Keep’s servants for help cleaning up. Even being out in the field, camping on the road to the destination of their little party of misfits, soon wasn’t a problem anymore.

For once in his life, all was normal. As far as normal goes when you’re surrounded by Darkspawn. 

But then, all good things come to an end.

She was gone, and they came back. He suddenly realized that the reason no former Templar had gotten conscripted and sent to them during his stay at the Vigil had been solely thanks to Mahariel. It seemed they had flooded back, drawn to him with a unique cruelty.

They were out for him, some of them he even remembered. He had a lock, but soon he couldn’t sleep, he couldn’t let his guard down, not ever. He was so exhausted, he just wanted to rest.

Something else happened. There was fire, he couldn’t be sure it wasn’t his. Flesh burned off bodies. A blade was over him. A familiar smirk bled all over him, towering over his corpse. He swore he was more dead than alive. It didn’t matter now. They were finally going to win.

He could almost feel it, what was going to happen. They would’ve ran away from the conflict, dragging his body into a dark corner. They would’ve done unspeakable things to him, and he wouldn’t have been able to resist or fight back. That’s what was going to happen.

Two things happened. Immediately, his body reacted with the only defence mechanism that it knew. Most of the people around him were bloodied, and bodily fuctions get the best of most people in these circumstances, so a bit of piss wasn’t going to make much of a difference. But at least the warmth soothed him.

He closed his eyes, preparing for the worst. But then he heard a familiar scream close to him. And a few seconds later came a flood of something different. Crisp, like clarity.

And then he could fight back. Then, there was Justice.

– – –

Being in Darktown wasn’t going to help, and with every morning the shame returned, along with Justice’s ever-present anger. He learned to deal with it, and he went back to old habits, to his old routine of morning duties. He would’ve had to deal with the constant fear that Justice was going to catch someone’s attention, that he was going to do something extreme, and that one morning he was going to wake up surrounded by guards, Templars, even fucking chanters and the like. Everyone wanting his head for a different reason, or perhaps always the same.

Justice’s words churned in his brain, scattering his thoughts day and night. His hands trembled with the frustration of being powerless. Until Hawke arrived. Stunning, strong, unapologetically apostatic in a sea of sharks. Flaunting the Fade thrumming in his veins, magic hidden by muscles the likes of which he’d only ever seen on warrior before, never on a mage. He envied him, he envied this man that was going to change everything around these parts, whether anyone liked it or not. And he couldn’t have Hawke getting near, because the man was trouble, and he knew it. They both did.

They kept their distance for years, trying not to cross paths, all the while Anders kept waking up in a wet and cooling bed, with the snarls of Justice ringing in his ears, chiding his unconscious mind for straying to thoughts of Hawke’s powerful thighs, his dark hair and mischievous eyes, the mouth on him, the snark. It was dangerous and distracting, and if Justice had his way, Hawke would’ve had nothing to do with him unless he could help with their plans. And if the choice was between never seeing Hawke again, and hoping him into something he could regret, then Anders had no other choice. Let him have this one thing in life, Andraste knew he had never wanted for anything. Justice agreed.

When they got closer, Justice was quick to remind him it was all a ruse, but he would never do something like that. It was genuine, whatever plans might be in place. He had feelings for Hawke, affection he hadn’t felt since Karl, before the Templars had started having it out for him.

In times of peace, it’s not a rarity to let down one’s guard, and Anders honestly thought this romance blossoming between them was a sign he wouldn’t resort to old defence mechanisms. Being pushed against a wall, Hawke’s steady bulk covering him from collarbones to his thighs, with Garrett’s hot breath tickling his neck, lips closing over his - it made him feel safe, and it was absurd, but he couldn’t help it. Hawke had gotten away with so much shit throughout the years, that he couldn’t help but feel protected from the real world when his strong hands seized his own scrawny arms. And when they started sleeping together, it was bliss. The frankly athletic fucking Hawke insisted on putting him through paid off the first time Garrett asked him to spend the night. He had been so bone tired and deliciously sore that the thought of sleeping anything but peacefully didn’t cross his mind. The way he saw it, he was going to be out like a sack of potatoes after the workout his body had gotten. And so it was. He slept deeply, the masculine scent of Hawke unique, the thrum of magic like a satisfying bolt of electricity, attuned to the side of himself that housed Justice, keeping him quiet. When he woke up, the all-encompassing warmth of Hawke’s body curled snugly around his was enough to trick his brain, and his honed reflex finally relented.

He’d never imagined how delicious the feeling of dry, soft silk sheets would be, tangling around his legs. How welcoming a mattress that sunk only because of the weight of two entwined bodies and nothing else would be. How familiar the distant steps of servants around the manor would be, instead of a foreign presence to be rejected and dispelled. It felt like home. His brain was finally, blessedly quiet.

He knew that the following months were going to put a strain to their relationship - something that they might never recover from. But he couldn’t help but love Hawke. He couldn’t bring himself to using him, not to the lengths Justice expected him to. He figured that if he just kept Garrett in the dark, he might’ve gotten a chance at redemption, but he couldn’t know for certain. Perhaps the actions that led to this had already irrevocably ruined everything, but he couldn’t turn back.

Then, after going through with the plan, he was certain that the nightmares were going to return, and with Hawke gone, perhaps forever, there wasn’t going to be any warmth left to keep him safe at night, except for what he could muster, himself. His mind was set, and even though he now had much to lose, he didn’t want to regret ever finding Garrett.

A little peace, for a little while, is better than never having found any at all. Some respite, just for a brief moment. A little nest of his own creation. Puzzle pieces of safety and love he’d managed to fit together when nothing else worked. Perhaps, someday, he will be himself enough to try again.


End file.
